


Fate

by Staganddragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco is lonely on Christmas Day and I am sad about it, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mutual Pining, Songfic, angsty, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staganddragon/pseuds/Staganddragon
Summary: I wrote another Drarry song and needed a Drarry drabble to go with it. Listen while you read, if you so please:https://soundcloud.com/emily-simmons-517273337/fate-2





	Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadepresley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadepresley/gifts), [bixgirl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/gifts).



> Because these two people are some of  
> a) two of the most outrageously talented writers I have EVER had the pleasure of talking to, and  
> b) also, two of the most outspokenly supportive and encouraging people I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. I wish I could give you an island but I only have this. <3

Harry always told himself he’d never end up here, but here he is for the sixth time this week and the second time today. It’s only Tuesday.

His back is shoved up against a cold brick wall and he is surprised he does not melt into it; it is damp but so is his skin, sticky and hot and bare, but not because the August weather has managed to drift long into September. He can feel his heart pumping as fast as it can; can feel the redness of his cheeks and his chest and is worried that if Draco releases his grip on his wrists that he will simply dissolve into the floor. Kisses everywhere at once, open mouths just barely missing each other, crushed noses, hot breath, and Harry’s knuckles are white from clenching his fists so tightly. He does not know who the moans are coming from, does not know if this is real and happening or one of his many dreams he’s been having since he was thirteen. Draco’s lips feel fuller than he imagined, trailing down his stomach until it is all he can do not to pass out.

It’s just steam. Wasted space and, secretly, a way to cope. Harry shuts out the thoughts that only dare creep out of the shadows while he sleeps.

They simply aren’t meant to be together in the way Harry so desperately wants them to.

_______________________________________

 

Draco always told himself he would never actually do it, keeping his fantasies well within the parameters of his skull.

So how, by any means, does he have Harry Potter breathless and crazy and cornered in an empty classroom, shirtless and hard, just five minutes before they need to be in their next class?  
Every inch of them is touching the other, thighs and chests and mouths and foreheads and cocks, and Draco wants his hands everywhere. He cannot decide which parts are most important to drag his fingers across first. Harry’s hair alone is positively pornographic, softer than it seems when staring at it from across a densely packed classroom. His jaw, usually clenched in concentration, confident and sure, now hangs loose and open. Draco cannot logically explain the desire he has to crawl inside Harry’s mouth while he isn’t fucking talking for once. Everything in his life seems to have been leading up to this one moment, plucked out of an infinite variation of occurrences only for them. 

But Draco does not believe in fate, and if it does exist, there is no way that this is it.

They make it to their next class red-faced, messy haired, late, obvious, and unquestioned.

\---

Harry does not know much in the heat of this moment other than the fact that it is October and he is pulling Draco’s hair and time is not passing as long as Draco’s fingers are leaving deep red marks that are sure to become bruises on his back and shoulders. He throws his head back and smacks it on a shelf in the cramped (and ironically broomless) broom closet. He wishes he could remain caught in the excitement of the potential of being discovered by Filch, of someone walking by and hearing thumps and name-calling and the inevitable weight of Harry’s guilt for continually lying to himself about how he truly feels. Instead, Draco nearly draws blood on Harry’s neck and he just pulls harder, because maybe if he makes every effort not to let go, he can, at the very least, have this. His charade won’t last much longer under these circumstances.

_______________________________________

 

His scalp is burning and Draco feels himself falling with the autumn leaves. It’s a regular Wednesday. Meet on the third floor corridor at sundown, third door to the left of the tallest window. He does not know how long they have been here, not just in this closet, but in this mess of something Draco can’t quite yet put a finger on. It’s messy. Messy and unstoppable and _awful_ , because with every hot-breathed encounter Draco can feel himself losing his understanding of the difference between what he can have and what is just barely out of his reach. 

They burst out of the closet only ten minutes after they entered, and ungodly amounts of steam pour out after them. Neither of them acknowledge it.

...

 

Harry shifts under Draco’s weight. He is tired and naked and unexplainably heartbroken, but Draco looks like he belongs in Harry’s bed, feet lazily hanging off the edge, curtains of the four-poster open in unspoken celebration of being the only ones in their year at the school for Christmas. He wishes it was this way all the time. He is tired of only having him on weekends or holidays, like he’s in a custody agreement with the rest of the student population that they have no idea about, or _every_ idea about, for that matter, and it’s just steam… It’s only blowing off steam...  
Cold meanders in, filling the empty spot in his chest he’s been reserving for no one in particular for as long as he can remember. He resists the urge to pull Draco tighter against his chest and instead curls himself away, wriggling into jeans and hastily pulling a wrinkled jumper over his head. He wishes having Draco at his beck and call didn’t make him so… _sad_. The point of this whole deal was to let him be just the opposite. He tiptoes out of the room, leaving a sleeping Draco behind him, and grabs his broom. He will be able to catch the next train out to the Burrow if he hurries. Perhaps it will move fast enough so as not to let Harry’s feelings catch up with him before it’s too late. If they were meant to be, they would have happened by now. If fate was real, it would have changed everything.

_______________________________________

 

There is no Harry underneath him when he wakes up. There is no rise and fall of chest, no heartbeat waiting for him to press his ear up against, and he remembers how embarrassingly loudly he shouted _“God, I love you,”_ into the abyss as he fucked him. It was impulsive, the way he might say it to anyone he fucked, but it it was different because it was Harry and he meant it. He’s not supposed to mean it. But now Harry is gone, maybe still in the castle, maybe far away, and Draco misses him...  
He wraps himself in Harry’s blankets for as long as he can, basking in the smell of them, wishing he could make the scent into a cologne and carry it everywhere, before finally rolling off the bed to find that his clothes are gone and Harry has left his own behind. Draco grins in spite of himself and crawls into the maroon jumper with an atrociously large gold “H” adorning the front. It feels handmade, like a home he is only vaguely a part of.  
It’s no big deal, Harry told him, just steam, steam that is billowing up about Draco’s brain and blinding him to anything that does not have green eyes and deceivingly soft black hair.  
He waits up in the eighth year common room, but Harry doesn’t come back until January, and Draco spends Christmas alone and empty.

...

It is Harry who has Draco pressed up against the wall this time, clothes on, just as sticky and damp and hard as ever, but furious and finished and disgustingly in love, because too much steam can burn you if you aren’t careful. 

_______________________________________

 

Draco is listening to a red-faced Harry shout at him. The words sound angry but they aren’t; he looks defeated and small even though he has all the power to knock Draco’s teeth out with a single punch in this position. Harry has been in love with him all along. Git. 

_______________________________________

 

Harry hasn’t seen Draco look like at him like this before, even before he left to the Burrow in December, but now it’s March, and spring is hanging loosely in the air, and everything is starting over.

_______________________________________

 

When their lips meet for the first time in months, they fall perfectly, softly, together. 

It is as though everything in each of their lives has been leading up to this single moment. From an infinite number of possible outcomes, fate hand-picked this one and waited not to hand it over carefully and delicately, but to thrust it upon them both with gusto.

They make it to their next class pink-cheeked, messy-haired, late, unbuttoned, unquestioned, and happy.


End file.
